13

SEAN HAD MADE IT to the mainland, to Maui’s Waka. But where was Kevin? He mounted Bojay, turned the horse’s head and took off down the beach. Zed, Fiona and Geoff leapt off the end of the breakwater and started running in pursuit. Bojay’s hooves drummed on the hard sand. The surf thundered and the spray thickened. Sean’s heart sank as he thought of Kevin and Sofa trying to survive in the crashing seas. What hope would they have in the two-metre waves? He could see the sea churning with white water and the air swirling with windblown mist and spray. But as he galloped, crouched low over Bojay’s neck, peering between his ears, he saw a group of figures away in the distance, vanishing and reappearing in the mist. Somebody had survived. He urged Bojay to greater speed.

He drew closer and the figures became clearer. Sofa. Several goats. Richard, crouched over a figure lying on the sand. Sean jumped off Bojay, just as the body on the sand stirred, coughed, and puked up about a litre of sea water.

‘That’s got him,’ said Richard, as Kevin drew in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to realise where he was.

‘I thought I was drowning,’ he said. ‘Is all this for real?’

Richard looked like he’d just run a marathon.

‘For sure, mate. Bad enough giving you the kiss of life. At least I didn’t have to revive your horse.’

Kevin hacked up another litre of sea water and hauled in more air.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He noticed Sean for the first time, the relief on his face growing. He smiled when he saw Sofa.

‘Didn’t know you could swim that well,’ he said to the horse. Kevin had pulled himself onto Sofa’s back, but they’d followed the goats into the heavy surf and been rolled and tumbled by a wave that broke right on them. Kevin didn’t remember any more, but somehow he’d retained his grip on Sofa’s reins. The horse pulled him ashore as he made his way through the breakers into shallow water.

Ten goats stood around Richard. One of them was wearing an orange life jacket. The goats had amazed him with the way they’d handled the heavy seas.

‘They listened to their mother,’ said Sean. ‘They didn’t go swimming in jeans.’

He looked at Kevin and Richard’s sodden clothing and laughed.

‘Thought we’d had it that time,’ he said.

Before long they were all sitting together on the beach, Zed, Fiona and Geoff as pleased as anyone to have survived. Sean remembered Zed telling Fiona a sea voyage was just the thing to put the colour back in her cheeks, and wondering at the time what piece of overwrought melodrama had produced that insight. What was she thinking now? He was still wearing his hat and his eyepatch. It was crooked. Fiona leaned over and straightened it.

‘Now I know pirates can swim,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t ever sure about people walking the plank.’

‘What about our gear?’ Kevin said. ‘Wonder if that’s been washed up?’ Sean suddenly thought of his weapons. He didn’t care about his saddlebags and their meagre contents, except for Pablo Neruda in a plastic bag, but he didn’t want to lose his sawn-off and the home-made crossbow. He knew how much Kevin valued the chisels he’d been collecting and the set of wooden bowls he’d been working on. He heaved himself to his feet. Up the beach, Bojay and Sofa were already busy munching on a patch of pingao.

‘Come on then,’ he said to Kevin. ‘If you’re up to it we’ll take a look.’

They found their gear high and dry on rocks at the southernmost point of the bay, about a metre away from being swept past and lost somewhere down the coast. By the time Sean and Kevin caught up to the others they were limping and hobbling along, helping Richard drove the surviving goats towards Richard’s farm.

‘Fuck this for a laugh,’ said Zed. Crumbling bits of highway dug into his unaccustomed bare feet. ‘Best we get something to wear.’

They stopped at the first farmhouse they passed. The hedge at the end of the drive was wild and the front lawn looked like a hay paddock. A rural delivery flag, on the mailbox by the road, stood upright as it had for a year and a half. The front door was shut and as they approached, after closing the main gate on Bojay, Sofa and the goats, they hesitated. The mix of respect and sadness that struck them surprised everyone. They knew what they’d find, but for Sean anyway things were different. Growing in him, minute by minute, was the feeling that the country they were in now was new and clean. Any action could have a million consequences, spreading out like echoes. Maui’s Waka was different to the North Island.

Richard opened the door and they stepped inside. The house smelt musty, unused. Everything was covered with dust. It was an expensive home, brick and tile, with lots of aluminium joinery, and good quality carpets and drapes. Through the open lounge door they could see leather furniture, coloured rugs, white shag-pile carpet and a heavily varnished, hewn-timber coffee table with cups and a pot on it.

They moved down the hallway and past the main bedroom. Through the open door was one of the saddest sights Sean had ever seen. It looked like a bundle of clothes at first tossed in a heap on the bed. There was no smell and everything was tidy, except for a jug knocked over on a bedside table and some clothes scattered on the floor by a walk-in wardrobe. But when he looked a little closer, in the dim light he could make out two bodies, parchment skin and hanks of hair, one dressed in the remnants of a print dress and the other wearing a corduroy shirt and moleskin trousers. They were in each other’s arms. There was no way of telling who’d died first.

The sight stopped everyone. Fiona and Kevin were both outside the door, their eyes wide. When Sean caught his reflection in a mirror across the room, he was weeping. Nothing he’d seen yet in his travels had brought home to him so powerfully, so poignantly, the human face of the Fever and its awful aftermath. This wasn’t a crumbling institution, a cold TV or a disintegrating road. This was two people, clinging to one another, all hope gone and nothing left but love.

‘We’d better bury them.’ Richard’s voice was loud and shocking.

In a shed out the back they found a spade and a shovel and several pairs of boots. They fitted Sean and Kevin perfectly but were too small for Richard. He had to make do with a pair of jandals from by the back door. Nobody spoke while they interred the couple. As Sean had done so often elsewhere, they laid them in the grave together, wrapped in a blanket and not weighing more than a bag of potatoes. Sean wanted to say something, some sort of prayer, but he didn’t find his voice till the last shovel full of dry Marlborough dirt went on the grave. What he finally managed to croak out probably wouldn’t have made the New Testament.

‘Goodbye, you guys,’ he said. ‘And thanks for the boots.’

The sun went down as he spoke. Once again they stopped and looked at each other, and this time it was Fiona who voiced what was suddenly in all their minds.

‘Where will we stay? What will we eat?’

Geoff said he had some rice on board. Sean volunteered to return for it while the others scouted out greens and whatever else was edible. They fired up the barbecue. When he returned with a ten-kilogram sack of unpolished rice, they’d found cooking oil that was only slightly rancid, puha, curry and salt. They found whisky too, and coffee that was stale but still drinkable. That night they bedded down on the shag-pile. The horses and goats happily munched away in the front yard, while Hamu and Porkus guarded them. Inside, everyone talked themselves through the day’s events.

Kevin saw two rifles on pegs on the wall.

‘Do you think they’ll mind if I take one?’ he said to Sean. Sean knew what he meant. He thought for a minute.

‘No, mate. We’ve said goodbye and buried them properly. They won’t mind.’

They breakfasted on rice and puha and started on the twenty-five-kilometre walk to Richard’s home. Thirty people lived there, he said, growing fruit and vegetables and raising cattle. Three of Richard’s people came in sight just before noon, riding up the road in the shimmering heat. Mountain peaks rose to the south of them and coastal hills to the east. Richard’s people left the food they were carrying — the wholemeal bread, smoked trout and fresh fruit filled Sean and Kevin’s saddlebags — and rode back for extra horses. By that night everyone was at home on Richard’s farm, the goats secure and everyone pleased to eat a good meal and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Geoff’s scow had a collapsed bearing on the crankshaft and, bemoaning the lack of oxyacetylene — ‘Can’t beat the old red spanner’ — he, Zed and Fiona, accompanied by two men from the community and a bag of metalworking tools, said their farewells and set off for the return voyage. Sean and Kevin left with them, except the pair would be continuing their southward journey.

Once again they’d be alone, a prospect that, for Sean at least, grew more and more attractive as they rode. Sean wanted to savour the freedom and expansiveness he could feel in the landscape. He sensed a depth to everything, a revelation of secrets and mysteries. Here was a place where answers were as clear as the wide blue skies, and answers were what he needed. What did the Maeroero want? What part did he play? Sean could feel the manaia, alive against his chest. He remembered the misshapen little creature in the piebald pelt that had laughed at him. He and his mates had caused the Fever? Get away.

They soon came to the main road, and a parting that surprised nobody with the lack of emotion involved. Zed and Fiona were well and truly united and Geoff had thoughts for little other than the repair of his scow.

‘The Force be with you,’ said Zed to Sean and Kevin.

‘You too, bro,’ said Sean. ‘And thanks for the lift.’ Fiona and Geoff laughed.

Sean and Kevin were soon lost in the coastal hills, riding past the groves of willows, elderberries and tree lucernes popping up among the eucalypts. Blackberry climbed all over the ruined fences. Wild-looking cattle occasionally peered around trees and from within thickets, and insects whirred in the long grass. The storm that had almost drowned them had filled the dams and creeks. When they camped that night they lit the fire and tied the tarp to a chorus of frogs celebrating the wet.

Birds woke them in the morning, loud in the trees all around. Sean and Kevin lay under their saddle-blankets, their heads on their rolled-up swannies, and luxuriated. Sean drank in the day and the layers of sound all about. The sun would need to be higher and hotter before the traces of vegetation and cowshit in the summery air really hit their peak, but already he could smell the plains with their dry grass and wandering herds. He thought of the goats. He thought of Richard and his community too. But mostly he thought of what the day held for them. A young woman from Richard’s community had given Kevin an old AA accommodation guide. According to that, they’d be coming out on the coast soon, at Kekerengu, the gunwale of Maui’s Waka, under Te Tapuae o Uenuku, Footsteps of the Rainbow, the mountain they’d seen as they sailed out of Wellington harbour. Sean was looking forward to eating koura, the lobster for which the coast had always been renowned. Their saddlebags were packed with bread, made by Richard’s friends from wheat they grew and ground themselves, and he and Kevin had eaten their fill of rabbit stew, but Sean always had liked koura. He hadn’t tasted any for over two years, since he and Te Rina had stayed with friends on Whangape Harbour on the fabled west coast between Hokianga and Ninety Mile Beach. Sean really wanted to see a place named after the eating of lobster.

Kekerengu was snuggled into the coast, a calm blue sea sparkling in the sun and seals at home on the rocks. People were living in the old tearooms. They made Sean and Kevin very welcome, even if they were wary of their first visitors from what they clearly regarded as ‘foreign parts’.

‘People don’t travel any more,’ an old woman told them while they cracked and sucked lobster legs and ate the wholemeal bread while it was still fresh. ‘They’re probably busy trying to survive where they are.’ She and her husband had retired in a comfortable home a little way down the coast.

Now her cooking and gardening skills were a mainstay of her community. They weren’t just a means of embellishing her leisure after a lifetime as a librarian in Blenheim, raising four children and serving on local committees.

‘I wouldn’t have eaten like this. I’d have turned my nose right up. I probably wouldn’t have talked to you two either. Moving to the coast was the best thing Alf and I could have done and, dreadful as it sounds, the Fever was the next best thing that happened.’

Sean thought of all the people he’d met with lives opened up and new opportunities abounding, from Ralph, the former investment consultant at Ngahere, to Sister Annie Choling. But he still had to pull himself up from saying, Who are you trying to kid? Kevin looked shocked. Few of the teenager’s experiences could have been worse than his old life. He could see that the old woman was trying to put a brave face on things. From somewhere deep in his store of smart remarks and inappropriate comments, he dragged up something he hoped would fit the occasion.

‘I’ll take koura over melting moments any day,’ he laughed. ‘But I’ve always been a bit of a gastronome.’ She laughed, dutifully, Sean thought. He detected a tear too, and even though she pretended that she had an itchy eye, she was too late to stop it overflowing and running down her cheek.

Margaret was probably in her late sixties. The younger members of the community — three children, several adolescents and a group of men and women in their thirties and forties — all deferred to her, making sure she was comfortable with enough to eat. When everyone sat down to a meal that night they were all interested in what was happening elsewhere.

‘Don’t get me wrong about the Fever,’ Margaret said. ‘I’ve lost my children and their families and no doubt you’ve lost family too.’

She patted Sean’s hand and looked lovingly at Kevin. ‘If what I went through is any indication, a lot more people must have survived the Fever than managed to live with what came after. In a way I’m glad my husband died. All the death and the change would have been too much for him. It would have been too much for a lot of people, but so was modern living.’ She put her cup of borage tea down, and looked for a minute like she was carrying a heavy and painful load. ‘That’s what I mean. We just couldn’t keep going like we were and something had to happen, something really drastic.’ Sean thought of the Maeroero — ‘Kati ra, kati ra!’

‘I’m sorry for all your loss, Auntie,’ he said. ‘And I agree with you too, about people not coping, before or after.’ What could he say that made sense? ‘Kids were killing themselves in the Old Times. Their parents did too, after the Fever, when everything changed and they lost all the things they thought were important.’ He’d have to be careful here. He didn’t want to end up sounding like some nutter. He thought for a moment. ‘If you’ll pardon me saying so, being a woman you’ll have a fair idea of what’s important. As for me, I’m still finding out, but I never did believe anything worth having came out of a Cashflow machine.’

Margaret laughed and lifted her cup in a toast. ‘I think what you’re saying is that you don’t want anything to interfere with this delicious lobster, and I’m right with you there.’ She looked to Sean like she wasn’t fooling. The new world she was living in might have its disadvantages — he guessed she’d probably had a lot of trouble with people looking wrinkled and unironed — but she was coping, and clearly getting some satisfaction out of finding her skills valued and appreciated.

One of the young men, who’d been sitting at the other end of the table, came up then and spoke in Margaret’s ear, before taking his seat again. She gave Sean and Kevin a long hard look, and spoke a little hesitantly.

‘You two look like you’re capable of it, but I don’t know whether you will or not.’

They were being lined up for something. Sean took a sip of tea, pretended nonchalance. Margaret spoke again.

‘We go to the markets at Kaikoura every three or four weeks, usually with the folk from the marae just down the road. Three times since last winter we’ve been held up and robbed by people living at the Clarence River mouth.’

She took in Sean’s blank look.

‘It’s about halfway. They stole our money and goods coming and going. We need to give them a fright, make sure they stop bothering us. Could you help us?’

Sean had a flash of exploding heads and burning buildings. He felt ridiculous too, like the hero of some spaghetti western. He explained about losing his ammunition and having no ammunition for Kevin’s .308. He’d stripped and cleaned his sawn-off but it didn’t feel particularly safe to threaten people with an empty weapon.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Margaret said. ‘We’ve got ammunition here. We’ll pay you too. Twenty dollars each to ride with us to Kaikoura and back.’

What could they say? The offer took Sean by surprise. It was probably time to have a good look at his negotiable skills. He envisaged his appearance — patched eye, dreadlocked, bearded and travel-stained. No doubt he looked like a few miles of bad road. He could see he’d make a plausible heavy. But as a career, even as a pastime, the idea didn’t appeal. Still, the money and ammunition would be handy and he couldn’t think of another way to acquire either. Trading eels on a stretch of coast teeming with fish and lobster? As long as they didn’t have to hurt anyone.

‘Okay,’ Sean agreed, after a quick eye signal from Kevin. ‘Just a fright? You’re sure of that?’

‘I hope so,’ said Margaret. ‘None of us want to see anyone hurt.’

A day later they set out, lobster in barrels on the back of a cart drawn by two horses. Two young women sat on the cart with bundles of fresh herbs and bags of glasshouse-grown produce, like chillies and tomatoes. Two men, one with a rifle and one with a crossbow, rode alongside. They didn’t look at all intimidating, and nor did the contingent from the marae down the road. Except for an old man who winked at Sean when Margaret explained what was happening, they were all young people, carting dried fish and vegetables. Sean was starting to develop a really bad feeling about the trip. An hour out he was wishing they hadn’t taken it on. The old man knew. He became very serious when Sean spoke with him.

‘This won’t end well,’ he said. ‘But it’s been a long time coming and you look like you’re up to it. None of our whanau is, and not the people from the tearooms either.’

He told Sean to expect three men in their thirties and forties, who used the threat of violence to get their way even if they hadn’t hurt anyone yet. The old man, Poutu te Rangi, described them as bullies and cowards. He showed Sean a .22 rifle shaped into a handgun concealed inside his plaid jacket.

‘I’ve still got a couple of teeth left,’ he said.

They passed a huddled collection of cribs, or baches as Sean and Kevin used to call them before they moved south, spread out around the Clarence River mouth. Nobody was about, but Sean could feel eyes on them, and he and the old man sat up most of the night when they camped in a grove of ngaio trees just outside the town.

‘Somebody has to do this,’ Poutu explained. ‘There’s no right or wrong in it, just getting on with things.’

Poutu — never mind the ‘Uncle’ — knew as well as Sean that giving people a fright might well involve killing somebody, and there wasn’t a lot you could say about it.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that’s not so important.’ Oh yeah, thought Sean. What is?

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ the old man said.

We? Who’s we?

‘It’s the Maeroero,’ he continued. ‘Somebody has to put things right with them.’

Put things right? How?

‘Talk with them. Find out what they want.’ Poutu looked worried.

‘We don’t really know what you have to do. Maybe you know already, maybe you don’t. But we all depend on you.’

Hope you’re not too disappointed, Sean thought.

The Kaikoura markets were full of people, laughing, gossiping, jostling, wheeling barrows of fruit and vegetables and greeting old friends. The Kekerengu folk sold and traded all their goods and by mid-afternoon they were ready to leave. They camped out again that night and by midday on the following day they were approaching the river mouth. Everyone was worried, looking nervously about.

Four men on horseback were strung out across the road around a corner. They had shaven heads and black gear. Rifles were levelled. Sean saw a couple of swastika tattoos.

The two carts were side by side. Sean was riding out in front, his sawn-off drawn and cocked and resting across the saddle. One of the men called out.

‘Just drop your goods and money over the side and ride on!’ He addressed Sean directly. ‘And don’t you even think about it. We’ll waste you!’ He looked surprised to see Sean, and a little nervous. He didn’t even notice Kevin, who’d been beside the cart, chatting with one of the young girls from the tearooms.

Sean shrugged. Behind him he heard bags of coin tossed to the road and goods joining them.

‘That’s the story,’ said the man who’d spoken. ‘Nice and ...’ He didn’t get a chance to finish. Poutu’s .22 shot took him right between the eyes. The others whirled around to what had looked like a bundle of rags in the back of the cart. One of them managed to fire a round, but Sean’s shotgun blast hit him in the chest the same time as the shot from Kevin’s .308. It blew him out of the saddle and stopped everyone.

‘Drop your weapons or you’re both dead,’ Sean said to the remaining two. ‘Fuckin’ oath!’ he heard from Kevin. The stalemate lasted all of three seconds, before two rifles clattered in the road.

‘Now put everything back on the carts and fuck off. And no more trouble, not ever.’

The two men, one of them probably only eighteen, looked incredulous for a second. They dismounted and replaced all the bags. Then, wheeling their horses, they galloped down the road and onto the shingle beach. As soon as they were gone everyone leapt to the cart where Poutu had been riding and lifted the blanket. The old man had blood all over his face from where the shot had creased his scalp. Sean thought he was dead at first and one of the young women from the marae started to wail. But Poutu opened his eyes.

‘Stop that racket, girl,’ he said. ‘You’ll give me a headache.’ He looked around then and eventually focused on Sean. He felt the wound on his head.

‘I didn’t see that one coming,’ he said. ‘Did you get them?’

A few kilometres up the road, Kevin rode forward and joined Sean.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘I was expecting to see Colin. I just know we’ll run into him somewhere.’

Sean looked at Kevin. ‘He’s not our only worry.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not going to believe these little guys.’

‘What little guys?’